


Doctor Stiles Horrible, Ph.D.

by karotsamused



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, First Season Only, Fusion - Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog, M/M, No seriously I can't even explain this, Really Bad Puns, Stiles is an adorably inept supervillain, Superheroes, Supervillains, Trigger Warning: Non-con Kiss, Wonderflonium and Iridium, superhero tropes, world's fanciest elements!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karotsamused/pseuds/karotsamused
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between obtaining Wonderflonium for his newest invention, pursuing acceptance into the Evil League of Evil, battling his nemesis, and Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous at the laundromat, supervillain Stiles has a lot to vlog about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prescription for Pain

**Author's Note:**

> There are no excuses for this.  
> Thank you so much to my Bean for being beta. More chapters to come, oh God.  
> 

"So I've been getting a lot of fan mail recently asking about my backstory. I mean, all good villains, they have a reason they were drawn to evil, right? Not just that the costumes are badass - which, chyeah, take a look at mine right here and tell me this isn't a perk - but the real nitty-gritty stuff."  
  
He leaned back in his chair, adjusted his goggles over his forehead, and grinned.  
  
"We-hell. When I was just a boy in Gimmelshtump - "  
  
"Dude?"  
  
Doctor Horrible - nee Stiles Stilinski - slammed his hand onto the spacebar to stop the video recording.  
  
Moist - nee Scott McCall - grinned and wiggled what looked like a sawed-off screwdriver at him. "Practicing my lock picking."  
  
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Oh, and I thought the little scratchy noises were totally something different." He pushed back from the desk and smiled. "Thought I had another twenty minutes, though. You're getting better."  
  
Scott wiggled like an excited puppy and hopped into the apartment. Only then did Stiles get a good glimpse of the outside of his doorknob.  
  
"Dude. Dude! You didn't pick my lock, you mangled it! How the hell am I supposed to explain this to the landlady?"  
  
Scott wiped his face on the hem of his t-shirt, giving Stiles a view of perfectly toned, perfectly disgusting ab muscles. Scott tended to spend a lot of time at the gym, where everyone sweated and towels were provided. "Dunno?" he mumbled, muffled by wet cloth. He went to sprawl out on Stiles' sofa and squeaked on the pleather as he went down.  
  
"Dunno, he says," muttered Stiles, plopping back down into his chair. "Well, you're just in time anyway, I was about to vlog the backstory."  
  
Scott's eyes widened. "Dude, no. Don't do it. That'll totally blow your secret identity! How many other sheriffs do you hear of that die in car fires?"  
  
"It's a _fake_ backstory," said Stiles sourly, his eyebrows drawing together. "I was raised by a heartless scientist and experimented on. The freckles are actually chemical burns, okay?"  
  
"Oo," said Scott, blinking. "Hey, that's - totally not believable. They're still freckles."  
  
"This is not an HD webcam. It'll fly."  
  
Scott gave him a skeptical look, which on his squishy face was kind of like being stared down by a pug. Stiles groaned and scraped his hands through his hair before wheeling to turn back to the video.  
  
"He-ey so false alarm, gonna edit that out somehow, Gimmelshtump has to wait. That blurry thing in the background is Moist, whose criminal lock-picking credentials have been upgraded from tectonically slow to faster-than-grandma. The crowd goes wild, leave your congratulations in the comments. "  
  
Stiles ignored the pillow Scott winged at his head, primarily because it missed. Plus, it was cloth, and the further from Scott's overworked perspiratory glands it got, the faster it dried.  
  
"So! On to - ah, how 'bout a few more e-mails." He adjusted the recording window and popped his e-mail client open, scanning through to the starred ones.  
  
"Backstory, that's a nope, Doctor Horrible can you write me a prescription for - Xanax? No-ho, I only write prescriptions for pain, sorry. Pain and anarchy. May cause dizziness, please operate heavy machinery - oh! A friendly warning for all of you out there who don't already have a nemesis."  
  
Stiles sat back and adjusted his goggles, deadpanning at the camera, "About a month ago, a mysterious meteor crash-landed in the middle of the desert in Nevada and a naked dude popped out. Creeptacular, right? Well, he's calling himself Starpower and he's looking for a nemesis. He's already spammed me for the past week, and even though I have sent him multiple polite denials, he persists."  
  
He pressed forward, getting as close to the webcam as he could while it remained in focus. "Starpower, if - no, no, I'm sure you're already subscribed, so _when_ you see this - I _have_ a nemesis. Your power might be sexiness, but she's _actually_ sexy, and plus, uh, babes before naked space-dudes. Perhaps you've heard of Kiss-Me-Kate? Seductress of good, shrew to the wicked? The dichotomy is _muy caliente_. Maybe you should take some lessons."  
  
Stiles plopped back into his seat and pulled his collar away from his neck. "See this bruise? Totally a love-bite."  
  
Scott snorted so hard he splashed.  
  
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Alright, damn it, she tazed me. But! Not only does that count for her, I also got away with - this!"  
  
He fumbled, then lifted a small folder to the view of the camera and wiggled it.  
  
"You fools don't even know what it is. You have no clue. You couldn't comprehend the malevolence inside this file."  
  
"What's in the folder?" asked Scott, rolling off the couch and bounding over.  
  
"Keep it dry, keep it dry," mumbled Stiles, leaning away in his chair. He held the folder out of Scott's reach. "This, my friends, happens to be all ten thousand, six hundred and twenty-three signatures to request that Nickelback be included in the lineup for SummerFest. Usually I'm all for people fucking each other over, don't get me wrong - oh, hell, I'm going to get flagged for profanity."  
  
He ran a hand over his face and hit the spacebar to stop the recording. He took a few deep breaths, then shoved Scott in the chest to get him to back up. "Dude. Electronics. Come on, man."  
  
Scott wrinkled his nose. "What's so bad about Nickelback? You're becoming a mee-mee."  
  
" _Meem!_ " snapped Stiles. "It's pronounced _meem_." Stiles sighed. He hit the spacebar to start recording again. "Usually, children, I'm all for people ripping each other apart. Anarchy. Destruction. Everything that proves the status quo isn't working. But this - this is disgusting. It's _why_ I'm a villain. Because I have to live in a world where ten thousand, six hundred and twenty-three people within mere _miles_ of the place I sleep every night signed a petition to bring _Nickelback_ to the Ampitheater."  
  
He sat forward, holding the folder to his chest.  
  
"What these people don't realize yet is that now I have their names and addresses. From there, extrapolating everything else I need to know is pitifully easy, even for someone without a Ph.D. But I'm Doctor _Horrible_. And I have already made _copies_."  
  
Stiles broke into his best evil laugh - and he'd been practicing.  
  
Scott hit the spacebar for him. "Are you, uh. Okay?"  
  
Stiles' jaw snapped shut. "Yes, shut up."  
  
"This is pretty weak, man," said Scott, plucking the folder out of Stiles' hands and flipping through the pages. "I mean, some of these girls have cute handwriting."  
  
Stiles snatched the folder back. "I was _going_ for the one on the new budget measure. You know, Eighty-four Bee?"  
  
At Scott's blank look, he sighed, tucking the folder into his desk drawer. "Salary and pension cuts for the police force? Come on. Kate got to me, you know? And anyway it's just a stopgap until I get the freeze ray done."  
  
Scott looked past him, to the pile of metal scraps on Stiles' worktable. The penny dropped. "Dude, you counted all of those signatures, didn't you."  
  
"Adderall," said Stiles, knee bouncing as he went through the motions of editing his video. "And, you know. Laundry day."  
  
"Oh. _Laundry day_." Scott waggled his eyebrows. "The tall, dark hottie you can't even get up the nerve to talk to."  
  
Stiles shrugged one shoulder. "I'll do it. Today. Or next week." He looked up. "And anyway, you are _so_ weaker than I am on that front. You just said that some of those signatures had cute handwriting."  
  
Scott held up both hands in surrender. "What? Cute handwriting usually means cute girl. Especially if they dot their i's with hearts."  
  
Stiles gagged, and then his phone alarm went off. He drummed his fingers on the desk before saying, "Laundry. Laundry time. Okay, I'll - I'll edit later. You, get the hell out - no! Buy me a new doorknob and you had better have put it in by the time I get back. Okay? Okay!"  
  
As he raced into his bathroom to grab the duffel bag he used as a portable hamper, Scott called after him, "She's gonna notice if it looks different!"  
  
"I'm gonna notice if I can't get back inside! You pick, Houdini." Stiles tore out of his lab coat and goggles, smoothing out the gray t-shirt underneath. "How do I look?"  
  
Scott winced. "You've got the little red forehead circles again."  
  
Stiles rubbed roughly at his forehead, willing the goggle marks to go away. "Damn it. Any looser and they'll fall off. Oh well, okay, no time. Laundry. Laundry, laundry." He grabbed up his duffel and the athletic sock he kept his quarters in, patted himself down for his wallet and threw his keys at Scott. "You, fix my door," he ordered, making a break for the stairs.  
  
"Talk to her this time!" called Scott.  
  
"Damn right!" cried Stiles, sliding down the banister.  
  
It would have been a pretty awesome exit too, if it hadn't been for the girl in 1B chaining her bike to it.


	2. Here I Go, Mumbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild-Mannered Civillian Stiles Stilinski does his laundry. And has a conversation with the guy that accidentally left one of his shirts in the dryer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've realized that writing strictly from Stiles' point of view when he gets the chance to inner-monologue involves a lot of parentheticals and italics. Please bear with the visual representation of a brain that won't quit. Also thank you again, dearest Bean, for your assistance with the dialogue and the proofreading.

Stiles sat gingerly on one of the benches at the laundromat, careful of the handlebar-shaped bruise darkening on his thigh. Of course he'd hit the handbrake, and of course it had caught his hammer loop. On the upside, the adrenaline and the blood rushing to his face had more or less erased the red marks his goggles had left on his forehead, and the bruises would heal unseen.  
  
And he could still see _him_ thumbing through one of the old magazines on the next bench over.  
  
He hadn't told Scott that the tongue-numbingly attractive person he'd made unspoken laundry dates with for the past four months was male. Male, and made of solid muscle with stubble on top. Like sprinkles on an ice cream sundae.  
  
Stiles didn't even know the guy's name. He hadn't worked up the nerve to so much as do the dude-grunt chin-lift thing that bros did, because Stiles was most definitely not a 'bro', no matter what Scott called him when he was drunk. Instead, he clung shyly to the walls, hunched over his washing machine like its agitator held the secrets of the universe, and contented himself with furtive glances out of the corner of his eye. Week after week after week.  
  
He'd made up names for the guy in his head. He didn't look like a Todd, or an Alan, or a Steve. Instead, Stiles had given him nicknames, each more descriptive than the last. He'd started with Tall, Dark, and Absurdly Sexy (or TDAS, pronounced TEE-dahs, in the same vein as P. Diddy or J. Lo, because _ta-daa!_ was already the noise Stiles' brain made whenever TDAS entered the laundromat) and had driven himself to the kind of breathless run-ons that could give an Oxford comma the vapors.  
  
When the buzzer on his washing machine went off, Stiles got up and didn't limp as he went to grab an empty laundry cart. He tossed damp clothes into his cart and turned to the wall of dryers and stopped cold.  
  
TDAS was in the process of pulling his clothes out of two dryers. Jeans and towels in one, shirts (Stiles swallowed, watching him handle them) and briefs in the other. Only the towels were not black, but even those were a very dark gray.  
  
When he stepped away to fold, Stiles scrambled to take that dryer. Because it was the only one open, and there was a dryer sheet still clinging to the wall of it. And a black t-shirt.   
  
Stiles stared at that shirt, then glanced at TDAS out of the corner of his eye.  
  
TDAS, already folding, had his back to the dryer.   
  
_I_ , he thought to himself, _am a creep._  
  
That didn't stop him from ducking both hands and his head into the dryer, furtively pressing that shirt to his nose and filling his lungs.  
  
He shook himself, straightened, and turned. _Man up, Stilinski!_  
  
He took the four confident steps to the counter beside TDAS and held up the shirt.  
  
"Hey, um." Stiles cleared his throat when TDAS turned his head to look at him. "Yeah. Hi. Anyway. This is yours? I mean, I'm pretty sure this is yours. It was in the dryer. Right there, that dryer you just took your clothes out of and. Um. Yeah. Here."  
  
TDAS blinked at the shirt, then gave Stiles a half-nod. "Thanks," he rumbled.  
  
TDAS shook out the shirt, looked it over, then began to fold it.  
  
"You're welcome," said Stiles, rocking back on his heels. "So, uh. You sure keep those darks really dark."  
  
"Someone's gonna take that dryer," said TDAS, glancing back at him.  
  
"Oh - damn!" Stiles scurried off (cursing himself as he went, because only _henchmen_ scurried) and threw some of his wet jeans into the dryer before a half-stoned college kid in a beanie could usurp it. He stuffed the rest of his clothes inside, fumbled with his quarters, decided TDAS' old dryer sheet would be enough.  
  
When he turned back to TDAS, the guy was still folding.  
  
Seriously, he wasn't even in stereotypical laundry day clothes. Where girls showed up in pajama pants and flip-flops and guys showed up in cargo shorts and worn-out t-shirts, he was in a pair of good jeans with no frays, a well-fitting t-shirt, and black sneakers that were remarkably clean. He had a set of sunglasses tucked into his front pocket, and a good, leather belt that didn't bear any scratches.  
  
It was almost like he'd just bought all of those clothes, even down to the underwear. Like minks going white in the winter. Maybe by January he'd be in khakis and polos. Or even colors, like a good green to set off how blue his eyes were, or deep, warm brown to take the severity out of his features, or a clean, starched, white collared shirt that strained under the pressure of his muscles--  
  
Stiles was jolted out of his runaway distraction when a small, brown child careened past him on little floppy feet and bashed into the side of TDAS' leg. The kid bounced, landing on her little bottom, her pigtails bouncing with the impact. She took a deep breath, and began to wail.  
  
TDAS blinked down at her, his hands poised over the countertop, staring like he'd just been the kid sprout another arm from her forehead.  
  
It was kind of cute, realizing that a guy that hot didn't know how to handle a kid. The confusion on his face was endearing, and Stiles couldn't help but come to the rescue.  
  
He came to her and lifted her to her feet, his hands gentle under her arms. "Hey, sweetness. Up you go, now."  
  
She squirmed, sniffling, but as soon as she was on her feet again she relaxed her little fists. He glanced over his shoulder at the way she'd come and saw a young girl, all giraffe legs and long, black hair, with her hands on her hips.  
  
"Sorry," she said, even as the toddler made grabby hands at her.   
  
"Aba!" said the toddler.  
  
Stiles gave her a gentle push so she could waddle over to her sister and straightened with a smile and a half-wave. "She's learning fast."  
  
The girl scooped the toddler up and balanced her expertly on her hip. She shrugged, and turned away from Stiles, heading back toward where her mother was sitting by the four-loaders.  
  
Stiles turned back to TDAS and smiled at him. "Kids, huh?"  
  
TDAS shrugged and resumed folding, cool and composed. Stiles stood by him, rocking onto the balls of his feet. He watched the two girls and their mother for a moment, and his clothes spinning in their dryer, but he kept glancing over at TDAS out of the corner of his eye.  
  
When he noticed a pale gray henley in TDAS' hands he couldn't help but smile to himself. So the guy _did_ own something wasn't black. But, as he watched, he could tell it obviously wasn't in the main rotation because of the holes in the armpits, and a missing button.   
  
When TDAS finished with that shirt in particular, he turned and said, "What."  
  
"Mm? Oh. Nothin'. Just."   
  
Briefly panicked, Stiles tried to find anything that would have caught his attention and saw the hot-pink edging of the tabloid TDAS has been reading.  
  
"You know. I'm just sick of all the news about that guy." He reached across TDAS' laundry and picked up the magazine. On the cover, Starpower and a beautiful redhead beamed out from under the headline.  
  
"You've heard about him, right? Spaceman from a galaxy so far away our best telescopes only see it as a heart-shaped smudge?"  
  
TDAS shook his head. "I don't watch TV."  
  
Stiles snorted. "Sadly, this isn't a show - it's real. He's the world's newest superhero, but that title's not applicable in the least. I mean, okay, he has _one_ superhuman power, but it's charm."  
  
At TDAS' skeptical look, Stiles shrugged. "I'm completely serious. He thwarts crime by making criminals weak at the knees - but once you know about it, he can't get you twice. Love at first sight only."  
  
Stiles looked back down at the magazine. Dryly, he said, "Which is why she's not looking at him a second time. Has to be. A girl like that, no way."  
  
TDAS grunted. Stiles realized he wasn't getting the point across and turned to him, laying the magazine down and poking right in the middle of Starpower's glossy forehead. "No, seriously. I went to high school with her. Lydia Martin. She's a genius, literally, an absolute genius. When he landed, she was in the desert doing field research for NASA - which she calls 'applied mathematics' because she's a genius _and_ a snob. Compared to her, he's - got a chemical enhancement, and that's all."  
  
Stiles waved a hand, puffing out his chest. "And he's just coming down and pulling a Kirk, finding the hottest babe to get his alien rocks off."  
  
TDAS moved on to his jeans, shaking the first pair out with a snap. "Pulling a what?"  
  
Stiles gaped. "A Kirk. Jim Kirk? James T. Kirk? James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the Starship Enterprise?"  
  
"I told you I don't watch TV," said TDAS, giving him a blank look.  
  
Stiles did not say, "I am totally rethinking my crush on you," because a good man could be taught.  
  
Instead, he said, "It's cool, you don't have to be ashamed or anything. But by this point Trek's, like, a cultural artifact. Part of the zeitgeist. _Everybody_ knows Trek, especially since J.J. made it cool again-- "  
  
"How did you know it only works the first time?" asked TDAS, watching him more closely.   
  
Stiles blinked, reran the conversation through his head and found himself scrambling. "What only works the first time?"  
  
"Love at first sight. Starpower," said TDAS. "It doesn't say anything about his power only working until you know about it."  
  
Stiles swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat. Oh _shit,_ he'd said too much. The _Doctor_ knew about those things, but Stiles Stilinski? A normal guy who'd never had Starpower attempt to become his nemesis?  
  
TDAS must have picked up on his panic because he snorted. "Oh. You were researching the competition."  
  
"Compe - what? I don't want to be a superhero! He's not a hero and he's barely even super! He's like a celebrity that's only famous for being themselves. He's the Kim Kardashian of superheroes."   
  
TDAS raised an eyebrow. It was screamingly eloquent, Stiles knew, if he could only speak the language.  
  
 _Stop thinking like a supervillain, Stiles!_ "Oh. Oh! Um, you mean for Lydia?" he squeaked, voice cracking on her name. "No. Nonono. She - I - we, uh. I'm a totally normal guy and she's a genius. We aren't - in the same mental league." It chafed him to lie, but he could do it if it meant TDAS didn't think he was already totally mooning over someone else. (That he was happened to be beside the point; Stiles had known for a long time that he'd probably love Lydia Martin for the rest of his life, but she'd never hit the particular libido buttons TDAS mashed.) "She'd get bored with me 'cause I couldn't keep up."  
  
"Practical," said TDAS. He began putting his folded clothes in a bag. "Which means you're lying."  
  
Stiles could feel himself flush. "Hey, buddy, you don't even know my name. Isn't that a little familiar?"  
  
"Mine's Derek."  
  
Stiles blinked at the easiness of it, then cursed himself. He could have said, _Hey, buddy, you don't even know my phone number_ and probably gotten away with at least the first three or four digits before TDAS - before _Derek_ caught himself.   
  
Okay, so maybe he looked like a Derek.  
  
"Stiles. My name's Stiles."  
  
Derek nodded a little, tucking his laundry bag over his shoulder. "Later, Stiles."  
  
Stiles nodded, and waved at Derek as he left.   
  
If he did a little wiggle once Derek had gotten into his sleek, black sports car and driven away, well, only the toddler and her sister saw.


	3. Let The Games Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott fixes Stiles' doorknob. Stiles finally gets his video uploaded. He gets an immediate response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gracious thanks to my Beta-Bean.   
> Also, just to clear it up so nobody worries, Derek is Penny, not Bad Horse. You're, uh. Actually about to meet Bad Horse. I hope you enjoy a Teen Wolf take on the Thoroughbred of Sin. :D

When Stiles got back to his apartment, Scott was inside, sprawled upside-down on his couch watching TV. They'd long established that Scott ought to assist gravity in any way possible, if it kept his sweat away from Stiles' electronics. After the unfortunate incident with Stiles' old remote (which had, at one point, been dropped on concrete, and so the battery cap had broken and had to be replaced with duct tape, which had eventually frayed until the batteries were again exposed and Scott, upon touching them, had made a face that warmed the cockles of Stiles' heart at the same time it corroded the coils in the remote) Scott had taken to elevating anything that had a cord or a battery above his shoulders at least.   
  
This time, he had the remote balanced on one knee, and a towel under his head. When he saw Stiles poke his head through the open door, he pitched a key at him.  
  
"Here, dude, I already gave the other one to your landlady."  
  
Stiles caught it, then bent to examine the new doorknob. He whistled. "Hey, not bad."  
  
"Damn right," said Scott, grinning. He flopped over and sat upright, setting the remote on the arm of the sofa. "I met this girl at the hardware store and she gave me a hand."  
  
Stiles straightened, raising both eyebrows. "Wait, what?"  
  
Scott shrugged. "Told her I was fresh from the gym and my doorknob broke before I could get in to shower."   
  
"Smooth, fella. Get her number?" asked Stiles, kicking the door shut and tossing his duffel bag of laundry back into his bedroom.   
  
Scott hopped up. "You are trying to keep me from asking you how laundry day went."  
  
Stiles flushed, and sat down hard on his computer chair. "Same as usual. I've got a video to edit."  
  
Scott gaped. "What, after all that you _still_ haven't talked to her?"   
  
"Nope, didn't talk to her at all," said Stiles, and on a technicality it wasn't a lie. Now that he'd actually spoken to Derek, though, he had to psyche himself up to do it again next time.  
  
"Dude. _Lame!_ Seriously lame. Unbelievably lame--"  
  
"You didn't get her number, did you," said Stiles, tapping his spacebar a few times until his computer screen came back to life.   
  
Scott deflated. "You suck. You don't even believe in me!"  
  
Stiles shrugged. "Horrible."   
  
He fiddled with the video he'd recorded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He'd have to keep the interruption Scott had made, because otherwise the guy just appeared out of nowhere - but he'd have to edit out the lock picking. Scott was still working on getting into the Henchmen's Union and they weren't too keen on self-starters.  
  
Though it was disingenuous, Stiles didn't even really see _Henchman_ when he looked at Scott. The guy had an unfortunate glandular issue that generally lent itself to evil in the same way that little girls disliked worms because they were icky. But under the sheen of perspiration, he was a pretty normal, doofy, girl-crazy loser. He was incredibly difficult to have world-altering conversations with, because he kept worrying about what his mom would think, or how anarchy would, by necessity, make some people feel bad.  
  
If anything, Scott was more like the little white cat. Only he was more of a puppy. A spotty puppy with one ear that couldn't stand up all the way and a tendency to chase his own tail and go cross-eyed watching bugs. He'd be an awful lapdog. He'd probably yawn and make weird yawny-dog noises during the Big Villain's monologue. He'd wiggle his tail at the Hero as he was being lowered into the shark tank and lick the Damsel's toes.  
  
Stiles, accustomed by this point to his own bizarre thought patterns, glanced at Scott and just grinned to himself. Scott had taken up station on his bedroom floor and was playing catch with himself, pitching a tennis ball against the wall.   
  
"Hey. So that girl at the hardware store," said Stiles. "Did you get her phone number or not?"  
  
Scott grinned over at him. "Yeah. I think maybe I'll give her a call tomorrow or something. See if she wants to go for a run or something."  
  
"Yeah? She the athletic type?" asked Stiles. He saved the file, then set it to upload and got up.   
  
"Could be," said Scott, resuming his solitary game of catch. "I mean. She seemed like it."  
  
Stiles lifted his laundry bag and dug around in it, halfheartedly folding as he went. "So that's a good sign," he said, nudging Scott with his foot.  
  
"She was fit. Really, really fit," Scott began, and Stiles just let Scott talk to himself about how hot the girl had been. He hung his clothes, button-up shirts next to his good white coats, jeans next to his good black slacks. He'd been raised to dress the part. His father never looked quite as authoritative outside of his uniform, and his mentor had never once let Stiles see him out of costume. Doctor Horrible was a man of education and good taste, so Stiles had to dress him in a way that suited his position. Intelligent villains were potentially so much more terrifying than brutes, but they were also much harder to dress. Still, he'd been able to fudge it on the slacks, at least, by keeping them as dark as he could and hanging them so they didn't wrinkle. He wasn't yet at the height of villainy that could justify the dry cleaning bills.  
  
Once done, he bent and pulled his boots from the bottom of the closet, along with their polish and a brush. It was a ritual he'd developed to keep himself from watching every second of his video uploads and obsessively refreshing afterward to check his page views. If he kept his hands busy, he didn't annoy himself with his obsession with instant gratification. Plus, it kept his one good set of boots black and clean. Given the beatings they often took, Stiles had gotten very good at blacking and re-lacing his boots.  
  
Scott, used to the pattern of it, got up and opened Stiles' bedroom window, wasting time by watching the street. He winged the tennis ball hard at the sidewalk, and laughed when it bounced right back up to him so he could catch it.  
  
Stiles polished his goggles. Then he checked his black, plastic gloves for splits on the outside, and wear on the lining on the inside.  
  
Scott ended up forfeiting his tennis ball to a boy walking his dog on the street. "Woof to you too, buddy," he said, ducking back in through the window. "Sorry 'bout your ball," he said to Stiles.   
  
Stiles shrugged. "It's cool. What kind of dog?"  
  
"Big? Way into tennis," said Scott, smiling a little. "Got any views yet?"  
  
Stiles huffed. "Enabler," he mumbled, but tossed his gloves onto his bed and refreshed his page.  
  
He already had a video response, from --  
  
Scott threw his arms around Stiles' shoulders and gasped hard. "Dude. Dude!" he cried, "That's--"  
  
"That's Sieg Hale," breathed Stiles, his hand trembling over the mouse. "Supreme Fuhrer of the Evil League of Evil."   
  
"Dude," said Scott. "Dude. He left you a response. Load it! Load it!"  
  
Stiles swallowed hard. "I sent in my application a month ago. Last time, I didn't hear back. But - but this time."  
  
Scott smacked his hand out of the way and clicked the video for him, then squeezed his shoulders hard while it loaded.  
  
Stiles chewed his lower lip until it hurt, watching as Sieg Hale's red and gray logo blazed to life on his screen. The Hale coat of arms was huge and ornate, a shield emblazoned with an eagle surrounded by two baying wolves. In its talons, the eagle grasped a spear. Beneath their paws, the wolves had trampled arrows, and though they bled from their legs their eyes were fierce and fixed upward.   
  
And then he lay eyes on the man's face, handsome and terrifying, with the kind of smile that could convince even the most hardened hero that he was already three steps ahead. His hair was slicked back, his gray coat buttoned high up his throat, his black leather gloves tucked down into his sleeves.  
  
"Doctor," purred Sieg Hale. "I have received your application for entry into my little League."  
  
Scott squeezed Stiles' shoulders so hard he could feel his muscles cramping.  
  
"I can tell you now that you have not yet qualified. However, I see great potential in you. The promise of greater power to come. So I am giving you a task to perform." Sieg Hale smiled more broadly, showing rows of perfect, white teeth. "It is open-ended. I want you to please me."  
  
Stiles gaped, his jaw falling open. "Please?" he echoed.   
  
"I want you to impress me, Doctor Horrible," continued Sieg Hale. "Show me why I want you in the League. Stretch outside of your comfort level. Invent. _Innovate_."  
  
He leaned forward a little, tilting his head gently to the side. "I knew Red Right Hand," he continued. "I knew you were his pride, Doctor. His only apprentice." Sieg Hale shook his head, _tsk_ -ing sadly. But then he smiled again. "If you earn your way under my wing, Doctor, I will more than continue where he left off."  
  
Stiles wrinkled his nose. "I'm not an _apprentice_ \--" he hissed, before Scott clapped a hand over his mouth.  
  
Stiles shook his head violently, wiping the sweat from his lips, smacking at Scott, but he could pick up Sieg Hale saying, "You have until Friday. I look forward to your performance."  
  
"Friday?!" squeaked Stiles, pushing back from the table. The force of his chair's movement threw Scott backward, and they stumbled into one another while Sieg Hale leaned in and said, " _Achtung_ , Doctor. This is your only chance."  
  
By the time Stiles had his chair upright again, the video was gone, deleted by the user.  
  
"Dude," panted Scott, "what are you gonna do?"  
  
Stiles stared at the blank screen before him and swallowed against a tongue that felt dry and gritty as sandpaper. He licked his lips, and then again.  
  
"Invent," he mumbled, nodding to himself. "Innovate."


	4. The Frame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the Wonderflonium heist, and the vlog after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized this needed to be part of the previous chapter. Thus, a small blurb that frames what happens in the next installment. Warning for mild gore.

Around midnight, Scott said, "Hey."  
  
Stiles didn't look up from his worktable. He'd been fighting with his freeze ray, readying its chamber to accept fuel. The work kept his hands busy while he tried, without a touch of the stuff, to build a fuel tank strong enough to take a quart of pure liquid Wonderflonium. He knew it was volatile, becoming inert if its temperature rose above human body temperature, freezing if it fell below eighty. Eighteen-point-six degrees was an incredibly small margin for error, but Stiles _almost_ had the stasis vacuum under control.  
  
"What," he murmured, only partially listening.  
  
"Sieg Hale. Is he a Nazi or what?"  
  
Stiles fumbled the sautering iron and yelped as it clattered to the floor. "A Nazi? Dude. What?!"  
  
Scott looked up at him from the floor. He held a comic book above his head, his elbows locked. "Come on. Sieg Hale?"  
  
Stiles sighed, grabbing the iron and smacking it down on the tabletop again. "Okay, so yeah, there's a reference there."  
  
He turned around in his chair, pulling his goggles off and wiping his face. "But I've never really gotten, well, Nazi from him. I mean, white power isn't really kosh-- uh. Cool. But I figure, I mean, he's the evilest member of the League, so he had to pick the scariest thing he could think of. Obviously, that's Nazis. I mean. Because. He's got the look and everything, with the blond hair and the blue eyes, but - there are members of the League that aren't white!"  
  
Scott nodded dutifully. "Dead Bowie's, uh. Gray."  
  
"Yeah! Plus the goblin-king thing. So not up the Nazi alley."  
  
"Makes sense," agreed Scott. "So you're probably right."  
  
Stiles let out a breath, then scrubbed a hand over his hair. "He just picked it because Nazis are terrifying."  
  
"Yeah," agreed Scott, nodding again. He turned his attention back to the comic book above his head. "After all, it's not like he's actually _wearing_ the swastika or anything. It's just. Implied."  
  
Stiles watched him sprawl out on the floor and huffed. "Damn it. God damn."  
  
He got up and scraped his hands through his hair. It was getting long again, and his fingers caught on a tangle by his crown. "Scott. Am I gonna be getting Wonderflonium - am I gonna be doing all of this for a _Nazi_?"  
  
Scott groaned, dropping his comic book on the floor. "You're a villain, Stiles. If it turns out he sucks, you out-villain him!"  
  
Stiles blinked at him. "You think - you think I could do that? Could just out-villain Sieg Hale?"  
  
"What are we, an after-school special? Finish your stupid ray gun," said Scott, flipping him the bird.  
  
"Freeze ray," said Stiles. But he smiled a little, then, and turned back to it. Once the vacuum chamber was done, then he'd sleep. He had a big morning coming fast.  
  
…  
  
The next night, Doctor Horrible uploaded a new blog entry.  
  
…  
  
"You know, it isn't exactly easy having a nemesis like Kiss-Me-Kate. To be honest, if being a villain meant cute guys chased you around, everybody would be doing it. I would _love_ to have you as my nemesis, Starpower. I would _love_ to ruin your pretty little face.  
  
"But I have a nemesis. Kate is my nemesis."  
  
He paused, ran his tongue over his lips.  
  
"I was promoted into the position, you could say. Most people luck into nemeses, but not me. And everybody who follows her knows the story, at least on the surface. She vanquished my mentor."  
  
His brows drew together, and he scowled as he looked away from the camera.  
  
"Yes. Post-mortem, his real name was revealed. But to call him Adrian Harris is a disservice. It's dishonorable. History will know him as Red Right Hand."  
  
Doctor Horrible lifted his own right hand, turned his glove to show the back of it. The RRH insignia was burned bright into the black plastic, the red fist haloed in a crown of ivy. "And he was not vanquished. He was _mauled_."  
  
He curled that hand into a fist, trembling as he lowered it.  
  
"Master Red taught me the formalities of evil. And yeah, evil is in all of us. Evil is systemic in our surroundings. Evil makes the world work. But Master Red _shaped_ the evil within me, taking it from a mess of useless emotion and desire into the force that fuels me now. He was as cruel as he was nurturing, growing my hatred."  
  
He let out a breath, sitting back. "But he never _hurt_ anyone. Civilians are the symptom, not the problem. Taking apart the infrastructure that binds us to suffocation, _that_ was his goal. You've seen my manifestos. You've seen _his_ manifestos, if you've gone through my videos. Maybe - maybe I'll read you the letters he wrote me, the ones I could save. I still have some of his things."  
  
He closed his eyes. "What you don't know is that his vanquishing was. Was."   
  
He shook his head, gritting his teeth. "He'd told me he was going to run errands. That was what he always said, so I'd have plausible deniability. Just a really long grocery run. He was gone a week.  
  
"I received a package. A plain, brown box that was a little heavier than it looked. Because of the insulation. The return address was a P.O. Box, and by the time - by the time I went to check it, the owner had given it up."  
  
He swallowed, hard.  
  
"Inside that box was a tongue. Cut off, sliced _cleanly_ like it'd been done by a butcher."  
  
Doctor Horrible lifted his head, his brows drawn down, his jaw tight. "Tell me she's a heroine. Tell me to my face. Tell me how _good_ she is."  
  
He smiled then, a wretched, thin thing. "Tell me how good she is if she couldn't stop me from taking one half of the entire world's supply of Wonderflonium straight out from under her."  
  
Doctor Horrible hefted the briefcase into frame, his expression hard. "This is a half-gallon of compressed, liquid Wonderflonium. Gather round, children, and I will tell you how I took it."


	5. The Heist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Horrible steals one half of the entire world's supply of Wonderflonium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to my Beta-Bean!  
> One of my favorite characters is being oh-so-briefly introduced this chapter. Finally, a little girl power!

"I don't know how many times it's okay to puke before you head into dehydration territory," said Scott.  
  
Stiles fervently brushed his teeth, leaning over the sink so he wouldn't splatter his white coat. "Got Gatorades in the fridge," he garbled.   
  
"You're gonna pull off a heist with a blue tongue?" called Scott, trotting over toward the refrigerator. "Oh, wait no, you've got yellow flavor. Those don't dye too badly, right?"  
  
Stiles brushed his tongue, then took a swig of mouthwash, trying to get the sting of acid out of the back of his throat by replacing it with antibacterial alcohol. The mint stung. By the time he spat, Scott was back with a big bottle of yellow-flavored Gatorade (because really, all electrolyte-replacing sports drinks did not taste like the fruits on their labels, so it was more efficient to mentally catalogue them by color) and a skeptical smile.   
  
Stiles wiped his mouth on a hand towel and accepted the bottle. "The trick is to straight chug it," he said, cracking the lid.  
  
He paused, and thought better of it. "Once it warms up a little."  
  
Scott wrinkled his nose. "Glh," he mumbled, turning away. "So do you want me to come?"  
  
"You aren't my henchman. If the Union catches you doing outside work your application's toast," reasoned Stiles, tucking the bottle under his arm to warm it a little faster. "But I don't think it'll cause trouble if you're a bystander."  
  
"I'll act scared," offered Scott, and laughed when Stiles cuffed him on the shoulder. Scott cowered theatrically until Stiles smiled, then gave him a grin. "I'll get the terror sweats."  
  
Stiles snorted, then gave him a shove. "Get out. You can't show up with me. I'll meet you there."  
  
When Scott left, Stiles took a long swallow of cool Gatorade, then licked his lips. He had it planned precisely. There was an excellent system of alleyways and basements he could use to appear, stealthily, right at the site of the drop-off. The idiots transporting the Wonderflonium were using little more than a glorified courier van.  
  
Wonderflonium was, to most of the scientific community, a veritable unknown. Its uses had not been fully explored, and due to its incredible rarity and the fact that it had not ever been artificially engineered, very few facilities were given the ability to test it. Most of the general public didn't know of its existence, and because of that it was being transported in secret as just another supply shipment. In its frozen state, kept below eighty degrees, its reactivity was completely nullified. The Wonderflonium would just be in another brown, abnormally heavy box, with a briefcase inside that held the insulation.  
  
Stiles had his remote control device, his tools tucked under his coat, and his gloves clean. He settled his goggles around his neck - no point in giving himself forehead rings - and stared his reflection down.   
  
He took another mouthful of Gatorade, then left the bottle by the sink and slipped out of his apartment.  
  
He followed the alleys, his head down, his steps light. He climbed fire escapes and took rooftops, skirting air conditioning units and pigeons' nests. He dropped to the ground again half a block from the drop-off point at the back of a warehouse store. The place shared a lot with two fast food restaurants and an insurance company, and it was the second stop in a series of complicated transfers to get the Wonderflonium to the underground testing facility beneath City Hall.  
  
Stiles had chosen this area for multiple reasons. Primarily, there were _tons_ of witnesses coming out to their lunch breaks at the fast food restaurants, and his heist would be all the sweeter if people saw his triumph. Secondarily, if the heist went poorly, he could lose himself in the crowd.  
  
Thirdly, Stiles had worked hard to get the necessary intelligence to pull this off, and if it all went well he _deserved_ a strawberry shake.  
  
He shook himself, reaching into his coat to find his remote control. The courier van had a series of internal computers, from the GPS to the engine block. Stiles had spent hours attuning his remote to the car's ignition system and could only hope, at that point, that he'd done it correctly.  
  
He waited until the driver had exited the vehicle, taking the keys. Then, creeping closer, he pressed the remote ignition, smiling when he heard the engine roar back to life. He punched a few controls to coax the van to roll forward, as if in neutral. He would up the speed once he'd caught hold of the van--  
  
Two explosions just barely preceded the rope winding viciously around Stiles' neck. He could see that two arrows had taken out the driver's side wheels in showers of rubber and sparks. But then his back slammed into a firm, leather breastplate. He smelled a deep, spicy perfume and heard her laugh.  
  
"Doctor," said Kate, "how did I know you were going to be here?"  
  
Stiles dug his heels in, slipping the blade under his top button up to sever the rope. He stumbled away from her, coughing even as he straightened. "I'm just lucky," he rasped. He could feel the crescents where his goggles had dug into his skin but refused to rub them in front of her.  
  
Kiss-Me-Kate tucked an errant strand of blonde, wavy hair back over her shoulder and smiled perfectly at him. "Yes, honey, you are. You get to meet my sidekick. She's still in training, but she's coming along."  
  
The arrow whizzing past his ear sang as it cut through the air. Stiles turned halfway, unwilling to give Kate his back. At the mouth of the alley stood a girl in high, dark boots and tight jeans. She had already notched another arrow and had her bow drawn, strength in her taut muscles.   
  
She huffed dark brown curls out of her eyes and said, "It's Artemis. You must be Doctor Horrible."  
  
Kate tucked one hand over Stiles' shoulder, insinuating her mouth up against his ear. "Pretty, isn't she? I bet you can't even decide what experiments you'd like to do on her first."  
  
Artemis tightened her jaw. Even in a grimace, her pink-painted lips shone. "Just don't move. We've caught you, Doctor."  
  
Stiles looked over her shoulder, to where the courier had noticed the wreckage of his tires and had started running toward the alley, shouting.   
  
Artemis winced, looking - worried. Worried and a little guilty. Stiles was struck with the peculiar urge to comfort her. He risked a glance back at Kate and at least saw the punch coming. He stumbled into the alley wall with the force of her blow, his head snapping back when he hit. Fireworks crackled at the corners of his eyes and he sank down, dizzy and out of breath, when he heard the van's driver more clearly.  
  
It sounded like a voice he knew.  
  
It sounded like - like -   
  
He looked over, squinting against the pain of making his eyes focus and saw a guy in a courier's uniform that fit him oh-so perfectly, with black slacks and a good leather belt and black shoes without scuffs. He had a set of sunglasses on, but even then Stiles knew his face. He'd done his laundry for months while sneaking covert glances at that face.  
  
Both super heroine and sidekick completely forgot about Stiles. He could see it in the way their postures changed, shoulders rolling back a little, chins dipping, ankles drawing together.   
  
Derek said, "Hey, you just shot my tires! WIth _arrows._ What is wrong with you?"  
  
Artemis fish mouthed. Kate stepped in front of her.   
  
Stiles could practically taste the sultriness she threw at him to distract him. Worse, Derek seemed so very, very distracted. Like all the others that came up against Kate, he was stunned into submission.  
  
Stiles tore his eyes away from the nauseating scene and past them - the van was left unguarded. He swallowed and began to creep down the alley away from them. He'd double back. As much as it ached, he couldn't lie to himself and say he hadn't expected it. Both Kate and Artemis were completely focused on Derek, so as soon as Stiles got near the other end of the alley, he broke into a run. From there, it was half a block to get back to the courier van, swearing at himself all the while and ignoring the sparks going off in his head.  
  
He skidded to the backside of the courier van and threw it open, sparing only half a glance at the alley. Derek hadn't emerged from it, but then again neither had Kate. No fiery barrage of arrows from Artemis, either. At least the big guy was allowing him to get the job done.  
  
Stiles sorted boxes morosely, throwing a few around when they weren't the Wonderflonium. He finally found the box by nearly falling into it, jamming his elbow on the floor of the van in the process. He hefted the box and tucked it under his arm, creeping back to the open doors of the van.   
  
One of the doors slammed closed just as he came to it, and Artemis filled the doorway. She spread her arms, planting her hands on the frame, and glared at him. "I've caught you."  
  
Stiles sighed a little. "You _are_ a sidekick. You don't even have a catchphrase, huh?"  
  
Artemis gave him a hurt look. "Just because I'm new at this doesn't mean I didn't win."  
  
Stiles shook his head. "You haven't won yet. That's your second problem. Until I'm in jail or dead, you haven't won."  
  
To make his point, he launched himself forward and barreled his shoulder into the center of her chest. She yelped and went backward hard, landing on a jogger.  
  
Stiles threw himself backward and ignored the way the jogger winked at him. Scott wasn't his henchman. He was just passing by. He had just wrapped his hands around Artemis' shoulders and was asking her if she was okay.  
  
Stiles had no idea what was up with the ladies around him but their attention spans were certainly working in his favor. He beat it back the way he'd come, hauling ass up the nearest fire escape and curling around the box of Wonderflonium when he made it to the roof.  
  
He peered over the edge into the alley, where Kate had Derek pinned against the wall, both hands on either side of his head. Stiles couldn't see between them, they were so close. Kate had her mouth up against Derek's ear, and Derek was so very, very still. Guys that Kate had pinned often wore that posture.   
  
Stiles glanced toward the van, where Scott was _still_ talking to Artemis, scratching the back of his neck and smiling like a dork. Artemis looked like she was eating it up, tilting her head to the side and rocking on her heels like a little girl with a crush.  
  
Stiles wanted to scream.  
  
Instead, he took the Wonderflonium as he jumped to the next rooftop, and the next, before shimmying down the fire escape into the underground.   
  
Silently, silently, Doctor Horrible went home.


	6. What a Man's Gotta Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the evening after the heist, Doctor Horrible puts up a vlog, gets a phone call, takes a shower, and receives a piece of mail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my Bean, for being beta and for watching too many documentaries with me.
> 
> I usually try to update this every Sunday, and I'm aware I'm late. So uh. This chapter has naked Stiles to make up for it? :D

The briefcase of Wonderflonium clanked as it hit the floor. Doctor Horrible sat back in his computer chair, letting out a deep breath.  
  
"So. Not a triumph to terrify the masses. I only mildly inconvenienced a van driver and maybe got him a date. But that doesn't mean I _didn't_ just get away with it, and also heads up everyone 'cause the forces of good are currently ruled by their reproductive organs."  
  
He ran a hand through his hair, then trailed his fingers protectively over the bandage on the side of his throat. "Which probably isn't going to happen again, but it was a lucky break, and a thing to pass around about Artemis. She's a girl, just a - just a girl, early twenties. Pretty, if you're into that kind of thing. Easy to surprise. She'll be a sidekick for a while, probably, but I'll pass along all the conclusions I make on her."  
  
He leaned forward, his eyelids drooping, his expression darkening. He licked his lips.  
  
"I will tell you this to sign off. I'm not a villain for vengeance. I'm not doing this because I got my feelings hurt, or because people I care about have -- mm."  
  
Doctor Horrible shook his head. "I'm not vengeful. I could be, but I'm not."  
  
He was quiet for a long moment, looking down, then shook himself.  
  
He looked into the camera and smiled. "Before I go get _stinking_ drunk, just one more thing. Starpower. Seriously, buddy. I'm not going to subscribe to your channel either. It's probably all videos of you whining about how perfect your hair is, sprinkled with how-tos on chest waxing. Go find a nemesis that cares, Sailor Moon. If you wanna come throw back a few, though, put that superpower to good use and get other people to buy our rounds."  
  
He winked, and stopped the recording.  
  
A moment later, he just uploaded the video and pushed away from the computer, ripping out of his white coat and his goggles and his gloves, pacing the length of his tiny apartment in a sweat-stained t-shirt and dirty slacks. He couldn't get the way Kate had pressed Derek right into the wall out of his mind. The way her body arched toward his, breasts first.  
  
Stiles never had that effect on anyone, male or female. When even _Scott_ got a sidekick to melt on duty, maybe there was something in the water.  
  
Maybe _Starpower_ had been soaking in the water mains. Maybe the water filter on his kitchen tap was the worst wingman ever.  
  
Even if it were true, he couldn't quite bring himself to drink Starpower-flavored water. That was the kind of slippery slope that only ended with a costume made solely of two square feet of spandex.  
  
About the time Stiles realized he'd been staring holes into his water filter, his phone rang. Scott.  
  
He debated not answering, then shook himself and picked up. "Hey, Stud."  
  
Scott laughed. "Did you like my diversion?"  
  
"Not as much as Artemis."  
  
"Dude. She's really beautiful, isn't she. I mean, the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. And I think she really liked me. Did you see?"  
  
Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. "Little busy. Also, uh, she's a _sidekick._ You know, works directly for my _nemesis_?"  
  
"Oh! Oh, man. You should have _seen_ how pissed Kate was that you got away. She dragged Artemis away before I could even get her number!"  
  
"Ooh, tough break -- "  
  
"But she got mine. So I'm just. Gonna. I mean. We could totally date. Sidekicks gotta work up a sweat too."  
  
"Uh. Scott. Did you see the other guy?"  
  
"What other guy?"  
  
"The van driver. Kate had him."  
  
"I didn't see him. Was he - she didn't hurt him or anything, right? Did _you_ \-- "  
  
"No. He was fine when I left. I bet he's fine. He's fine."  
  
"She was a little focused on chewing Artemis out when I got the hell out of there. Sounded like she was gonna tell Artemis' dad."  
  
"And get her grounded?" murmured Stiles, but already he had a pen and was marking down notes.  
  
"Well she didn't sound too happy about it. Can you even ground a superhero?"  
  
"It's not like she flies, buddy. Also, uh, she's a little young for you if that's what's gonna happen."  
  
Scott snorted. "I'll just wait for her to call. Which means I'm, uh. Hanging up. In case. You know."  
  
"I'm gonna say this once. Out of love. For my best friend."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"She's a sidekick. You are trying to become a henchman. There is a _supreme_ conflict of interest here."  
  
"We-ell maybe it'll help -- "  
  
"Don't even! You remember how it went for the Capulets and Montagues, right? Six people died, including the two crazy kids in the middle of it. And Juliet was _thirteen._ "  
  
"Can you just be happy for me for like five seconds?"  
  
Stiles sighed. "She's really beautiful. You're right."  
  
"Yeah," said Scott, sounding dreamy.  
  
"Five seconds over."  
  
"Don't be an ass."  
  
"It's been a long day."  
  
"But you got the stuff. You got it. So that's good. That's really good."  
  
Stiles squared his shoulders a little. "Yeah."  
  
"And I totally helped."  
  
Stiles couldn't help but smile. "Yeah. You helped."  
  
"Bros before really, really, really ridiculously good-looking super girls."  
  
"Deal," said Stiles. When Scott laughed and told him good-night, Stiles hung up and looked down at the few words he'd scrawled on his notepad.  
  
He couldn't decide if it was worse that he'd just taken tactical notes on a girl that might like his best friend, or that they'd probably be necessary.  
  
It had to suck, anyway, being good looking like Scott was, but cursed with socially crippling dampness. And the attendant smell, just because his body tended to overfeed its resident bacteria.  
  
"Speaking of smell," mumbled Stiles to himself. He stripped out of the rest of his clothes and shut himself in the bathroom for the kind of shower that made his chest and back redden with the heat. He scrubbed away the smell of hot asphalt, of garbage from the alley where he'd hit the wall. Kate's perfume on his back, and the press of her breastplate under his shoulder blades. Scott's hands curling around Artemis' shoulders, and the way she blushed. The way his shirt was stained like he'd been running a marathon, but he wasn't out of breath. The way she didn't notice.  
  
The way - the way -  
  
Stiles threw himself out of the shower, scrambling through the apartment with soap still running down the back of his neck. "Yes! Yes!"  
  
He scribbled frantic notes, then swore when the water running down his arms warped the paper and made the ink run. Instead he grabbed chalk, skidding over to the chalkboard on the refrigerator, writing in big, fast swipes. When he finished, he stepped back, panting with the thrill of invention. He slipped in the puddle he'd made on the floor and grabbed for the kitchen counter.  
  
Still, he smiled. If his calculations were correct, he'd have enough Wonderflonium left over from creation of the freeze ray and its backup canister to -- totally enable Scott to date his nemesis' sidekick.  
  
"Oh my God, Stiles," he muttered, shaking his head. But he couldn't stop his stupid, traitorous mouth from smiling. "This is so damn' awesome. You're brilliant." He tented his fingers, Wyl E. Coyote style. "Doctor Horrible, _professional_ genius."  
  
He did a victory dance around the kitchen, providing his own theme music and crowd-goes-wild cheers.  
  
Then remembered he was naked and that the shower was still running.  
  
Swearing all the way, Stiles scrambled back into the shower. He threw the chalk into the bathroom sink as he passed. His hair was just - really, really, clean, since the shampoo had time to sit.  
  
When he emerged, toweling off, he padded carefully back into the kitchen to examine the diagram on the chalkboard. He bit his lips, mumbling calculations under his breath, already vibrating with new energy.  
  
Regular people, normal, boring, _non-genius_ people probably drank after a long, crappy day. But, as new inventions built themselves in his head, Stiles knew he had a much better brand of intoxication.  
  
He ended up hunched over his worktable in his towel, water droplets left to air-dry between his shoulders.  
  
He mumbled dirty talk to his work as he went ("Yes, baby, yes, like that. Stasis. Eighty-six degrees? That's fine. Daddy likes it hot,") and gnawed nearly through a pencil, his hands steadier than they ever were. Invention calmed him, narrowed his focus and pushed his control like nothing ever had before. He could go all night without stopping, without pausing to eat or sleep.  
  
In the gray pre-dawn, he sat back from his worktable and ran reverent fingertips over the body of his new-built freeze ray. It was beautiful, the stasis vacuum glowing faintly blue with stable Wonderflonium. The temperature gage sat unmoving at eighty-six degrees, with room for the Wonderflonium to heat and expand as it was used. The secondary replacement canister lay beside the freeze ray, frozen at room temperature.  
  
The remaining Wonderflonium Stiles left in the briefcase. He stroked the casing of it and said, "Soon, my darling. I have other plans for you."  
  
A soft sound, like a hush, cut him off.  
  
Stiles turned to check his front door and saw the envelope sliding underneath it. Instinctively, he pushed backward in his chair.  
  
When the footsteps in the hallway outside his door retreated, and the envelope neither exploded nor disintegrated with some foul toxin, he rose. He clutched at his towel where it rested around his hips, and crept carefully toward the envelope.  
  
The red, wax seal that held it shut bore a cross with a squiggle - no. A set of axes with a sine wave.  
  
Stiles dropped to his knees, breath shuddering out of his chest. He breathed, "Jordan Curve. No way. No fucking _way_."  
  
He lifted the envelope with shaking fingers, working it open as gently as he could. If Doctor Horrible had a supervillainess soulmate, Jordan Curve fit the mold. She was gorgeous, and dangerous, able to calculate projectile trajectories in her head. Intellectually she was unmatched, and her inventions were just as impressive as Stiles'. He'd heard of her building a trebuchet out of two garbage cans, a truck bumper and her overcoat. He'd _heard_ she'd used it to stop the police cars in pursuit of her by taking out a bridge.  
  
Inside the envelope was one piece of paper. A listing of solid elements with percentages next to them, that Stiles recognized rather quickly as the components of...a rock.  
  
Except for the above-average levels of Iridium.  
  
Iridium, the element that occurred in nature almost as rarely as Wonderflonium, that had yet to be replicated by human beings.  
  
Iridium, the hyper-compressed form of Carbon only found in craters.  
  
"Oh, my God," breathed Stiles. Jordan Curve was analyzing rocks from a crater site.  
  
The most recent touchdown of an extraterrestrial object had mushroomed the tabloids.  
  
It appeared Jordan had claimed her nemesis.  
  
Stiles laughed so hard he gave himself the hiccups. So maybe he spoke too soon. Maybe he needed to subscribe to Starpower's channel after all, if only to catch a glimpse of the aftermath.


	7. A Kind of Magic You Can Put On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott gets a phone call. Scott is Stiles' guinea pig. Stiles gets a video response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter actually comes from a J-Pop song about false eyelashes.   
> Thank you, my dearest Bean, for the proofread and the assistance and the cheerleading. You are super fantastical awesome!

"Hi, Scott. This is Artemis' father. I found your name in her phone, and you aren't a relative, so that means I haven't gotten the chance to introduce myself. My name is Ares. You may think it's cool that you managed to hit on a heroine, but let me give you a little bit of advice.  
  
"She has more important things to worry about than a boyfriend. And there is _no way_ you could keep up without jeopardizing both her safety and the safety of the people she protects. So I'm the one letting you down easy, for the common good.  
  
"You won't be able to trace this number and I've already deleted yours from her phone. She won't be calling.  
  
"Don't feel bad, son. I'm sure there's a regular girl out there just waiting for you to drive her to distraction. Keep that in mind. If you ever see my daughter again, don't get in her way."  
  
 _End of message. To delete message, press one. To replay message, press--_   
  
Scott pulled the phone back away from Stiles' ear and whimpered. "What do I do, man?"  
  
Stiles winced, chewing his lip. "Looks bad."  
  
"When he called, it didn't even ring! It went straight to voicemail!" Scott wiggled his phone. "And I can't pull the number out of the call log either!"  
  
Stiles frowned, and slid the phone out of Scott's hand. He keyed through a few menus and said, "Well, can't we try your phone bill? When did he call?"  
  
"This morning. At, like, four," said Scott wretchedly. "It won't have shown up yet."  
  
"So we look tomorrow." At Scott's crestfallen sigh, Stiles said, "Even then, we'll only get the number _he_ called from. It might have been a pay phone, for pity's sake."  
  
Scott groaned, grinding the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Dude. But. She was _so_ amazing. I can't let it end like this!"  
  
Stiles sighed, glancing over to his worktable. He'd wanted it to be a surprise, really he had, but with Scott this heartbroken he didn't really have a better way to cheer him up.  
  
"Who knows," he said softly. "Maybe it won't. I've been working on a little something with the extra Wonderflonium."  
  
"How's _Wonderflonium_ gonna help me? I can't freeze her dad! Oh wait, no, I could. I totally could, and then -- "  
  
"Scott."  
  
Scott bit his lip and fell silent.  
  
Stiles huffed, then crossed to the worktable and lifted the last small canister of Wonderflonium. "This stuff doesn't just freeze time. I think I can use it to help you with that little problem of yours."  
  
Scott blinked.  
  
"But. Wait. Stiles. Don't you need it?"  
  
Stiles smiled, and shook his head. "I've got enough. I can share. You ready to be my guinea pig?"  
  
Scott eyed him warily. "I should have let you sleep in, huh."  
  
"Yup. I'm running on three hours and a Mountain Dew. But now you're here, piggy. Do you want the girl or not?"  
  
Scott nodded quickly, then caught himself. "You still haven't told me what you wanna do."  
  
"Just. Trust me."  
  
…  
  
"Um. Wow. So it wasn't supposed to do that."  
  
Scott rubbed his chest, gaping at himself in the mirror. "All the hair's gone! Is it gonna do that in my armpits too?"  
  
Stiles lifted the sliver of Wonderflonium soap between two fingers, and watched as blue, glittering suds dripped into the bowl he'd put on the bathroom counter. "You know, probably. Does it hurt, um, at all?"  
  
"Kinda tingles. I should probably wash it off before my skin disintegrates, huh. Is that what's happening?"  
  
"It doesn't look like it. Astringent tingle or bleach tingle?"  
  
Scott considered. "Mouthwash tingle. Listerine. Stings."  
  
Stiles chewed the side of his tongue. "Nope, back into the shower, buddy, I'm not waiting until your skin falls off."  
  
"But look! It's totally dry. It's _totally_ dry. You're really getting somewhere."  
  
Stiles shoved Scott back into the shower and turned the water on cold. "So probably what this means is that it's too strong. It'll stretch longer if I dilute it-- "  
  
"So I'll have even more!" cried Scott, doing a little wiggle. He backed into the spray and rinsed his chest gingerly. As the Wonderflonium on his skin reacted with the cold water, it froze and sloughed off into the saran wrap Stiles had placed over the shower drain. It floated on top of the water so Stiles could carefully skim it off and recollect it.  
  
Scott sat on the edge of the tub and watched him, dripping. "Not tingling anymore."  
  
"Good sign," agreed Stiles, smiling.  
  
Scott wiggled his toes in the water once Stiles straightened up, making little splashes. "This is so worth it. I mean, if this is gonna make me stop being so - so - "  
  
"Moist," said Stiles, filling in the punchline for him.  
  
Wonderflonium-powered antiperspirant soap. It wasn't a marketable idea, and it probably wouldn't last Scott's entire lifetime, but if he used it sparingly maybe he wouldn't have to look like he was fresh from a workout at all times. Sure, using Wonderflonium like time-release talcum powder was maybe a step down from the freeze ray, but Scott needed it.   
  
Stiles didn't want to think about the implications for Scott's involvement with a family of superheroes that apparently liked to name themselves after Shakespearean characters and Greco-Roman deities, so he didn't. Instead, he focused on his guinea pig.  
  
"My skin's still dry," said Scott conversationally. "Like, super dry. Itchy dry."  
  
Stiles handed him a bottle of lotion. "Here. It probably did a number on your oil glands too. Still doesn't hurt?"  
  
"Nope," said Scott, rubbing lotion into his chest. He grinned a little. "It really is kinda like a bad shave."  
  
"Oh, good," said Stiles dryly. He took the pure Wonderflonium from the drain and dumped it back into the bowl with the rest of the soap. "So I need to thin it way the hell out and probably add some more moisturizers."  
  
"How long's that gonna take?" asked Scott, standing. His boxers were soaked, trailing ribbons of water down his legs.   
  
Stiles pitched him a towel. "You won't notice. At least, I think you won't."  
  
Scott's eyes widened. "You're gonna test the _freeze ray_ on me?"  
  
"It's harmless! And yes, I am."  
  
Scott crossed his arms. "No way."  
  
"I'm making you this soap for free. Out of the evilness in my heart. And this is how you repay me?"  
  
"Ooh, guilt trip," mumbled Scott into the towel. "Fine. Fine!"  
  
"Ha! Sweet. Get dry and I'll freeze you up good." Stiles swiped the towel from Scott and friction-dried his hair while Scott sputtered. He shoved Scott out into the living room and warmed up the freeze ray while Scott stepped back into his pants.  
  
"You sure I'm gonna be alright?" asked Scott, rubbing absently over the dry spot on his chest.  
  
"Yes. I just wanna see how long it'll hold, and how long it takes to, uh, warm up. Which - is at least thirty seconds," said Stiles, eyes on the stopwatch on his phone.  
  
It turned out, from complete stop to full power, the freeze ray took forty-eight seconds. Stiles took aim at Scott and fired while Scott began to protest, "I'm not--"  
  
The result was a completely still expression of surprise. Like those mistimed sports pictures that made the athletes look insane. Scott even had one eyelid at half-mast.  
  
Stiles took a few minutes to walk around him, marveling at his genius and stifling snickers.  
  
Then he flopped onto his sofa and laughed until he could stand to look at Scott for more than a few seconds.  
  
When he was just a moment shy of recovered, Scott unfroze and cried, "Ready!"  
  
Three seconds later, when Scott realized what had happened, he launched himself at Stiles.   
  
Entire time of freeze duration clocked in at around three minutes, forty seconds.  
  
Entire time of subsequent wrestling match was nearly fifteen.  
  
…  
  
Some time later, after two more trial runs (one of which bleached Scott's arm hair in a matter of seconds, the other of which set on such extreme itching that Stiles had to apply three tubes of oral anesthetic to the parts of Scott's shoulders that weren't already bleeding) and a consolation pizza from Stiles to Scott (ham and pineapple on half, pepperoni on the other) Scott agreed that they'd call it a night, but promised to come back first thing in the morning.  
  
Stiles talked him back to midday, and Scott relented when they both yawned. Before Scott left, Stiles double-checked the gauze over the back of Scott's neck and shoulders, then patted his chest.  
  
When Scott gave him a smile that was still trusting, still hopeful, it eased Stiles' conscience. He hadn't really meant to be cruel to his guinea pig, but Scott had a remarkable ability to take most discomforts in stride.  
  
Stiles, left in his empty apartment, stared down at the Wonderflonium soap prototype C and sighed. He'd have to scrap this entire batch and salvage the Wonderflonium, because he couldn't just alter a mixture that gave Scott such a bad reaction.  
  
In his heart of hearts, he hoped that adjusting Scott's perspiration would mean that he'd turn away from a life of crime. Being a henchman was all well and good, but Scott was… was _Scott_. He was loyal and warm and kind and somehow Artemis had decided she liked him.  
  
It didn't occur to Stiles to worry overmuch about Scott selling him out if he ever converted to the Good Guys' side. Scott had pictures of Stiles in drag after he'd lost a bet with Bait & Switch, and _those_ had never shown up online.   
  
At the same time, he promised himself he'd never ask Scott for more information on Artemis. The notes he'd taken from their first conversation already made him feel dirty.  
  
Doctor Horrible desired social change. Doctor Horrible wanted to rule the world with an iron fist, because he knew better than any of the idiots already in power. He would do a better job. Doctor Horrible just needed an alternative revenue stream because the Kickstarter crowd wasn't into Funding A Regime.  
  
Doctor Horrible checked the views on his post-heist blog.  
  
He had a video response from Sieg Hale.  
  
He paused, then steeled himself, steadying his stance before the computer. He was too jittery to sit. Too nervous to settle. He clicked play.  
  
Sieg Hale's crest burned bright into the screen, and then faded to reveal his face. Still handsome, still polished.  
  
He said, "Doctor. I am giving you plenty of time to impress me, but I feel I must interject."  
  
Sieg Hale leaned forward, his blue eyes narrowed into a piercing stare. "You say you aren't vengeful? You are lying to yourself. I will prove it to you when we meet, dear Doctor. Until then, maintain your integrity. Search yourself. You know revenge is the fuel that burns longest."  
  
He smiled, then, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Once you've come to your senses, we'll discuss it. And to show my continued goodwill, a fun bit of trivia.  
  
"The word _sidekick_ comes from an old piece of British street slang. A man's trouser pockets were called his 'kicks', and the kick on the side of his pants, where his hand was, happened to be the hardest pocket to pick. The hand protected the sidekick, so the sidekick was the best place to hold a man's worth. And his important information."  
  
Sieg Hale's smile broadened, showing perfect, white teeth. "Did you know that? Fascinating, isn't it."  
  
Stiles moaned, his hand rising to cover his mouth. "Holy hell."  
  
"Don't feel so down, my dear," continued Sieg Hale. "I'm sure you'll turn it around."  
  
As the video faded out, and was then deleted from the website, Stiles crumpled into his desk chair.  
  
He flattened his hands on his desk.  
  
"Okay. Okay, no big deal. He obviously doesn't know she's grounded. He doesn't know about _Scott._ It's only a suggestion. It's only - only a suggestion."  
  
Stiles grabbed two handfuls of his hair and pulled. "Invent, Doctor," he panted, squeezing his eyes shut. "Invent. Innovate. _Out-villain_ him."  
  
He turned to his freeze ray, scraping his fingernails over his scalp. Next to it, the bowl of Wonderflonium and failed soap still glowed faintly blue in the dim light. The extra canister of Wonderflonium to reload the freeze ray.   
  
"Am I out-villaining to impress, or because - because."  
  
He shook his head.  
  
He lifted the freeze ray, and its heft settled him. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked to the bathroom and stared his reflection down.  
  
"I am Doctor Horrible," he said, and aimed the ray at the mirror. He, scrawny in a red t-shirt and basketball shorts, with a rope burn on the side of his neck and socked feet.  
  
"Doctor. Horrible. And Sieg Hale only knows what I tell the internet -- _SiegHaleonlyknowswhatItellhim_ oh my God!"  
  
The forty-eight second warm-up time on the freeze ray saved Stiles' mirror, but only just.


	8. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott goes on a date. Stiles kind of... doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear Bean, for your assistance with a titanic case of writer's block. This story may be coming as slow as molasses, but at least you show up with a spatula to help it along from time to time.

Five days after the theft of one half of the world's supply of Wonderflonium by the Nefarious Doctor Horrible, one Scott McCall went to the movies with his best friend, Stiles.  
  
Scott had been to the movies since puberty hit, but not crowded, noisy weekend nights. His perspiration problems generally kept him away from social situations that didn't involve _other_ sweaty people. He'd been to his fair share of concerts, festivals, sporting events, parks, and beaches. He'd been on hayrides, he'd been on horseback, he'd flown kites and walked dogs.  
  
But the nine o' clock showing of a popular movie on a Saturday night? With people? And air conditioning?   
  
The nine o' clock showing of a popular movie on a Saturday night, where a pretty girl that had snuck out of her parents' house was waiting in the second row from the back?  
  
Scott had taken a shower with Wonderflonium soap about fifteen minutes before they'd left Stiles' apartment. Stiles had supervised to make sure Scott didn't try to lather twice, out of nerves or excitement, because a single application was enough to dry him out for nearly eight hours. Though they'd tested it on a trip to the grocery store the day before, Scott had still been an absolute bundle of nerves.  
  
But as soon as Artemis stood up in the second-to-last row and tucked her hair behind her ears before she waved, Scott bolted right up the stairs to meet her.  
  
"Hi," he whispered, smiling.  
  
"Hi," she whispered back, tucking her arms around herself so she wouldn't touch him.  
  
"Um. Hi?" said Stiles, coming up behind Scott.  
  
Scott jumped. Then said, "Oh! Um. This is my friend. Stiles. Stiles, this is-- "   
  
"Allison," said Artemis. When Scott raised his eyebrows at her, she gave him a tight-lipped smile that turned more relaxed when Scott nodded back.   
  
"Allison," echoed Scott.  
  
Stiles smiled, nodding. "Cool. Your dad's not going to come in here and kill him, is he?"   
  
Allison laughed, and backed up so the boys could get into the row of seats. She said, "He's busy."  
  
Stiles sat on Scott's other side, but leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees so he could see her. "Busy?"  
  
"I'm not really into death and dismemberment," said Scott, holding up both his hands.  
  
Allison rolled her eyes. "He's busy. It's cool."  
  
Scott's relief lit up his face. Stiles reminded himself that he wasn't pumping the sidekick for information and sat back against his seat to watch the previews.  
  
Scott and Allison (oh, how easily she gave out her name!) had a whispered conversation, even when the house lights went down. Stiles picked up that she had the kind of memory that could hold a cute boy's phone number even once her phone had been confiscated, and was unafraid of shimmying down rain gutters and the odd ivy trellis.  
  
He tried not to think about the calluses on her hands from her bowstrings. He tried not to think about the silver antlers she wore as earrings.   
  
Instead, he listened to them giggling, their heads bent together, and thought about being a third wheel. When the movie started, he watched, and periodically checked to make sure Scott hadn't started to sweat.  
  
As the credits rolled, Scott turned to Stiles.  
  
"Hey, we were going to get ice cream. You coming?"  
  
The last thing he wanted was for Artemis to get a good, long look at his face in the light. Stiles shook his head. "Nah, you go."  
  
Scott bit his lip. "But you're my ride."  
  
Stiles elbowed him. "So ask her nicely. If you get ditched, call me."  
  
"Thanks, man." Scott's smile was so white, even in the darkness. His entire face crinkled with it. "Seriously."  
  
Stiles pushed himself up. He leaned over, "Hey, I'll see you guys later. Nice meeting you, Allison."  
  
Allison blinked up at him, but then smiled when she realized what he was doing. "Nice to meet you too, Stiles."  
  
Stiles gave Scott a salute, and left. He took the theater stairs two at a time, and let himself into the lobby, dodging the winding lines of people willing to pay ten dollars for popcorn and a soda. When he ruled the world, _these_ people would be the first to be sent to the quarries.  
  
There really was nothing like manual labor to help people appreciate the value of their wages.   
  
Stiles made his way out into the night and turned his cell phone back on. (Those people that neglected to refrain from texting during movies were going to clean the lavatories for the quarry workers. Rocks were too good for those cretins.) He had zero missed calls, zero texts, zero e-mails. It was refreshing and depressing at the same time.   
  
He took his time heading back toward his Jeep, walking past darkened storefronts and the odd open restaurant. The Chinese place did decent business around eleven-thirty, when most of the later movies let out. The frozen yogurt bar, staffed by one bored young man with his eyes glued to his phone. And, land of milk and honey, the bookstore.  
  
Stiles ducked inside and took a breath of the smell of glue and coffee.   
  
He wasn't sticking around just in case Scott screwed up and needed a ride home.   
  
He was just perusing the endless stacks of words other people thought were good enough to put on paper. He started in the nonfiction and worked his way toward the coffee shop in front, until he reached the rows of periodicals that stared out at him with endless iterations of Starpower's face.  
  
On a whim, he picked one that wasn't aimed toward teenage girls and flipped through to catch a hint of Jordan Curve.  
  
Stiles knew her influence on Starpower would be subtle. It would be slow. It would be _perfect._ But she let Doctor Horrible know she'd taken Starpower for a reason. So he decided to search for clues. Any cracks in Starpower's presentation, any changes to his demeanor. He would be there for Starpower's crumble. Jordan Curve had invited him.  
  
"Still researching the competition?"  
  
Stiles jumped, shutting the magazine as he whirled to face - "Derek. Hi."  
  
Derek, laundry day Derek, courier van Derek, _pinned by Kate_ Derek. Derek, who was still in impossibly clean, impossibly black clothes. Including a leather jacket that really should have made him look like a douche. Really.  
  
"Hi," said Derek, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket.   
  
Stiles shoved the magazine back at the rack and said, "Hi."  
  
Instantly, he started to curse himself. Derek just looked at the rumpled magazine and snorted.   
  
Stiles' treacherous mouth was not yet done. "So uh. You like books?" it blurted, while Stiles' brain tried to bash itself against the inside of his skull.  
  
"Yeah," said Derek, with only the slightest undertone of mocking in his answer. He hadn't yet smiled, but the quirk in his eyebrows was enough to show a sliver of amusement. "You?"  
  
"Yeah. Yes. I mean. Yes."  
  
Stiles' brain finally caught up with his tongue and strangled it. He swallowed, then tried again. "Just kind of restless tonight. I was kind of surprised this place was still open."  
  
Derek nodded, turning his back on the magazine racks and the endless rows of Starpower portraits. Starpower's eyes were a perfect, perfect blue, but Derek's had a hint of green that made them harder, more intelligent. And the whitest goddamn' teeth Stiles had ever seen.  
  
Derek said, "Mm." He reached out and rubbed an invisible mote of dust from the top of a globe-shaped bookend and said, "So. Stiles. That's short for something, right?"  
  
Stiles blinked. "Yeah. Stilinski. My last name's Stilinski."  
  
"Stilinski," repeated Derek, not looking at him. "That's a pretty unusual name."  
  
"Not in my family," said Stiles, shrugging. He smiled a little, adjusting the way the bookend sat on its display shelf.   
  
Derek watched him, his brows drawing together. "Guess not."  
  
Given a silence, Stiles had a tendency to fill it. He kept going with, "My mom almost decided to hyphenate, but that would be saddling a kid with a six-syllable last name and that just didn't seem fair. So she made the sacrifice and became a Stilinski."  
  
"What'd she name you, if you aren't going by it?" asked Derek.   
  
Stiles wrinkled his nose. "What's the point?" He turned to look at Derek and shrugged. "Even my parents called me 'Stiles'."  
  
He realized too late that he used past tense. But Derek didn't dissolve into simpering pity. He hardly seemed to register it, beyond an aborted nod.   
  
Stiles waited for it to get awkward.  
  
Derek said, "Alright. I'll call you Stiles."  
  
Stiles smiled at him, making it easy. Derek didn't smile back. He stared down at Stiles with the kind of intensity that actually had Stiles torn between squirming discomfort and obscure hope.  
  
Wasn't Derek with Kate? She'd thrown herself at him, and he'd caught. Stiles _knew_ he'd caught. But Derek had his full attention riveted on Stiles, his eyes almost unmoving.   
  
Stiles swallowed.   
  
"Yeah, okay. Stiles. Call me Stiles," he agreed quietly.  
  
That seemed to snap Derek out of it. He nodded, then, and said, "So I'll see you around. Stiles."  
  
Stiles nodded. Ah, he knew it had been too good to be true. He almost blurted something out about coffee, but the Store Closing warning started to play over the PA.   
  
"Yeah. Have a good night."  
  
Derek made eye contact with him one more time before heading for the front door. Stiles watched him go, then turned to leave through the mall.  
  
He took slow, measured steps through the darkened mall, heading toward the parking garage.   
  
If this were a movie, he'd run into someone else. Artemis' vengeful father, perhaps, on a manhunt for Scott. Kate, out to kill Stiles for talking to her boyfriend. Sieg Hale, or a lackey, come by to let Stiles know he'd taken too long and the invitation to join the League had been rescinded.   
  
Instead, he nodded to a security guard and double-timed it to his Jeep, swinging into it. He checked his phone and, seeing no texts or calls from Scott, assumed he and Artemis - Allison - Artemis were having a good enough time not to need to be disturbed.  
  
He drove home in the gray night, following streets lined with neon and people in ones and twos. He circled for parking outside his building, then squeezed into a space under a lemon tree heavy with fruit. He stole a few and stuffed them into his pockets.   
  
As he climbed the stairs to his apartment, he thought to himself, if this were a movie, the zombies would be congregating outside. He'd live on lemons and freeze the zombies that got close enough to his door until the Wonderflonium was spent, and then - - then. He'd never gotten that far in his apocalyptic planning.  
  
Hopefully the zombies would wait until he'd taken over and he'd just deploy his robot militia to deal with them.   
  
Stiles' door was locked, just as he'd left it. Good sign.  
  
When he opened the door, the Wonderflonium was still glowing gently, casting his furniture in gentle blue light. A reassurance.  
  
But the sudden, cold breeze that cut through the apartment was new. Stiles _never_ left the windows open, on his master's repeated insistence. They were all booby-trapped so that the removal of the screen would trigger the kind of explosive reaction that would deter even the most dedicated of thieves. The screens were thick enough to prevent casual spies and low-rate assassins, and were drilled right into the concrete of the walls.  
  
The kitchen window was open, just the barest crack, the screen completely installed, the trap unsprung.  
  
And yet, in the kitchen sink, there was a small, thin sheet of brass no bigger than an index card.   
  
Stiles swallowed, and grabbed a pair of pliers to lift it into the light.  
  
Embossed into the brass, dark with tarnish, were two words in all capitals.  
  
 _HALE HOUSE_  
  
And, on the backside, a date scratched into the metal with some crude blade.   
  
Stiles shuddered, and dropped the nameplate. The date was familiar, burned into his memory with the weight of grief. The month and day he commemorated with a shot of whiskey down the drain, the year remembered as empty and heavy, the days without sun.  
  
The anniversary of his father's death, dug into the back of a plate that bore the name Hale.  
  
Stiles swallowed hard and lifted it again with his bare fingers.


	9. I Can't Be the One Who's Always Takin' Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Researching Hale House gives only dead ends. Doctor Horrible needs an alternative information stream. And information, like all goods, has a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild non-con. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, dearest Bean. I think you are super green~

Stiles opened one eye and took stock of all of his parts.  
  
Face: half asleep. Lips: tingling. Eyes: functional. Neck: sore. Shoulders: sore. Back: _fucking_ sore. Thighs: asleep. Feet: asleep. Arms: trapped under head.  
  
Slowly, gingerly, he sat up. He used his hands to push himself into an upright position and groaned as his back popped.  
  
His computer had gone into power-save mode long before. He tapped the spacebar and the screen flickered back, going through a few blurry iterations before settling on the right resolution. And still, still, after hours of search, it displayed nothing more about the Hale House than he'd learned in the first five minutes.  
  
Hale House was not a registered trademark. It wasn't an organization, wasn't a nonprofit, wasn't a property name that had any recognition. Yes, the name was spelled the same as in Sieg Hale, but Sieg Hale's stronghold was called The Den.  
  
Everything after that, combing record after record, made no mention of anything by the proper name of Hale House. Hale was enough of a popular surname that there were thousands of houses owned under that name, or a variant. He tried to limit the records to just those within the vicinity of the places he knew his father had been, but then the records completely disappeared. There was a black hole in the Beacon Hills area when it came to the name Hale.  
  
He'd gone through the property records one by one, starting with the stuff he could legally obtain, and moving to the few illicit contacts he had.   
  
When they were exhausted, he'd put his head down to catch a moment's rest before trying another tactic.  
  
The moment had turned into hours, and as Stiles rolled out his shoulders, smacking a dry tongue against the roof of his mouth, he realized he'd been glued to his chair for the better part of two days.   
  
The brass nameplate sat by his keyboard, engraved side out.  
  
Stiles pushed himself to his feet, then lifted the nameplate and ran his fingertips over it. The scientist in him urged him to take samples off of it, try to get environmental clues from the debris clinging to the metal.   
  
The villain in him wasted brainpower trying to figure out how the nameplate had gotten through a screen with more traps and sensors than some museum showrooms. How his early warning systems and deterrents had been disabled, and then _re-enabled_ afterward.   
  
He'd tested. They worked. After that, the obsessive-compulsive in him had wasted fifteen whole minutes scrubbing his own blood off of the kitchen tile.  
  
After Stiles wrapped a bandage around his hand, he sat back down at his computer and chewed a handful of stale popcorn. His options were slim, and he knew his last resort was looking more and more like his only resort.  
  
There was an information broker, whose name was rarely spoken. He was the closest an underworld entity could get to a true neutral. He traded information without alliance, so long as a patron could pay, or could provide information of sufficient interest in return. The Mastermind kept secrets for nobody.  
  
Stiles didn't have information. Red Right Hand had given up his secret identity to Mastermind years ago. Stiles hadn't even minded, not when Red Right Hand had shared the information with him. It was like he'd made the trade himself.  
  
He wouldn't sell Scott out, even though he knew some of the newer properties of Wonderflonium.  
  
He wouldn't trade in Artemis' secret identity. Mastermind probably knew it already, if she was any use to him.  
  
He wouldn't betray Jordan. She hadn't gone public as Starpower's nemesis, and that secret was too close to Stiles' heart.  
  
Without information to barter, he needed money. Stiles would pull off a heist. He would get as much as he could and lay it in front of Mastermind, to know everything he could about Hale House.   
  
He'd go on his own.  
  
He'd kneel, he knew it. He'd beg. For his father, he'd beg.  
  
…  
  
The thing about bank robbing was that it wasn't often expedient to go right for the vault. Unless, of course, one had a freeze ray and a laser-cutter that could vaporize even a foot of reinforced steel.  
  
Doctor Horrible timed his forty-eight second warm-up carefully, using his freeze ray to neutralize the only teller with enough guts to make a move toward the silent alarm. When the other tellers saw her go blurry like a camera out of focus, they all hit the ground.  
  
He didn't monologue. It was too important, this money. He would affect social change later. He would teach them the error of their ways later.  
  
Doctor Horrible made his way to the vault, counting silently in his head. He needed forty-eight seconds for another blast of freeze, and he had only spent fifteen of them.  
  
He aimed his laser at the hinge on the vault door, lining it up directly with the wall so that any hint of the beam slipping past the hinge wouldn't hit the vault's contents. He stayed carefully out of the way, so that once the vault door gave way with a shriek of scraping metal, it landed only on freshly-shattered linoleum.  
  
Kiss-Me-Kate landed on the door as it hit, taking the tectonic shock as a boost so she could launch into a high kick. With her hair streaming behind her, she landed both feet in the center of Doctor Horrible's chest, knocking the laser from his hands.  
  
He shifted, gritting his teeth against the freeze ray digging into his ribs, and aimed it at her.   
  
She smiled at him, and kicked the barrel before he could get off a shot. The freeze beam went wide, halting the flicker of one of the fluorescent lights.  
  
She knelt over him, her knees settling comfortably against his hips, as she drew an electric wand from its holster under her arm.   
  
She waved it under his chin and let the hum grow loud in his ears. Doctor Horrible lifted his chin, baring his throat. He swallowed, then tried not to breathe.  
  
"Oh, honey," she purred. "All of these fancy devices? I like good old voltage, myself. No warm-up time, just a nightly recharge." She leaned over him, her free hand splayed in the center of his chest. "Batteries have _always_ been a girl's best friend."  
  
Doctor Horrible counted seconds, but had only gotten to twenty-five when Kate whipped out her handcuffs. "I heard you told my sidekick that she couldn't win unless you were in jail or dead."  
  
She leaned down, licking her lips. "I'm not going to kill you. I've got _minutes_ before the authorities show up. I think we should have a little fun."  
  
Doctor Horrible swallowed. He tried, subtly, to point the freeze ray toward her, but she pressed the end of her electric wand at the base of his wrist.  
  
"So I know rubber doesn't conduct electricity. But it _does_ melt. How long do you think that'd take, Doctor?"  
  
She squeezed her knees viciously just under his ribs, knocking the air from him. He coughed, and his hand went slack.  
  
With one swift moment, Kate caught both of his wrists and pinned them above his head, clicking the handcuffs into place.   
  
She licked her lips again, tongue catching at the corner of her mouth as she smiled. "There, now. Isn't that more comfortable?"   
  
Doctor Horrible tested the cuffs, then immediately went still when the hum of electricity flared to life by his left ear.  
  
"I know I'm cozy," murmured Kate, all teeth. "And I don't even hear sirens yet."  
  
Her tongue, slick and hot, traced its way over Doctor Horrible's lower lip. He gasped, pure reaction, and swore to himself he'd bite down. But she clenched her thighs under his ribs again, and his jaw went slack with the pain of ribs that gave a threatening creak under the pressure. Her tongue wormed deeper into his mouth, past his unresisting teeth, stroking over his tongue.  
  
She tasted like biting down on aluminum foil.  
  
Smoke exploded around them, thick and black and reeking of sulfur. Doctor Horrible coughed, then _realized_ he could cough, as Kate's weight and suffocating tongue were suddenly gone.  
  
He tried to scramble to his feet, when he was hauled up by the handcuffs around his wrists and pressed against a very solid, very muscular chest.  
  
He shivered when his savior growled into his ear. "Do you know how Houdini kept his keys? That's where she keeps a razor. _Never_ let her kiss you."  
  
Doctor Horrible felt a jerk to both his arms, and then his wrists were freed. He coughed again, and as the smoke began to clear, his eyes met the intense, red gaze of a man-shaped hell beast nearly seven feet tall. His soot-black skin gave way to curly, black hair and two massive horns that sprouted from his forehead and curled back over his skull like a ram's.  
  
Doctor Horrible was still plastered to his broad chest, and realized with a start that it was _bare,_ well-muscled but completely unprotected. And he stank of sulfur. Brimstone, wasn't it?  
  
"Who the hell--" he began to ask, but his mouth was swiftly covered by a broad, black hand.   
  
Already, the smoke was clearing. The sound of crackling electricity heralded Kate's return to consciousness, and she burst into view with blood streaming down the side of her face.  
  
She stopped still, then broadened her stance and grinned.  
  
"Oh, Horns. Long time no see, sweetie. Don't tell me you've switched sides."  
  
"Get out of here," growled Horns, shoving Doctor Horrible behind him.  
  
Kate grinned. "Ah, I see. Without your little Halo, there's nothing keeping you on the good guys' side."  
  
Horns bellowed out a roar that shook the windows. Before Doctor Horrible could react, he'd launched himself at Kate.  
  
Electricity arced between them, and Horns hit the ground with a choked-off groan. He twitched, arms convulsing around his stomach, his wiry tail curling tight over his thighs.  
  
Doctor Horrible threw himself at his freeze ray and fired, stopping Kate mid-step. He crowed, gathered up his laser gun, and yelled, "Horns! Come on!"  
  
Horns staggered to his feet, slamming his shoulder into the wall for balance. He cracked the drywall with the force of it, plaster dust adding to the black smoke swirling around him. Every step was labored, but for a big guy, he picked up speed quickly. He barreled toward the back exit and took out the glass with his shoulder, shielding Doctor Horrible.   
  
Once outside, Horns grabbed him around the waist, launched himself up onto the rooftop, and bounded away at top speed. Doctor Horrible dangled in his grip like a rag doll, only able to clutch his guns.  
  
"I'm not-- gnh!" Doctor Horrible coughed again as a particularly hard landing jarred his ribs. "I'm not a _damsel!_ Put me down!"  
  
When Horns unceremoniously dropped him, and then continued to haul ass away from the bank, Doctor Horrible just lay where he landed, clutching his laser gun and his freeze ray to his chest.  
  
He watched the big, black bulk race away and winced against the sunlight.  
  
"Thanks," he muttered under his breath, pushing himself up.   
  
It occurred to him, then, that he should have frozen Kate, grabbed a few hundred thousand dollars, and _then_ run. He looked back to the bank and saw it surrounded by flashing lights, cop car after cop car blocking it in. Doctor Horrible would _not_ engage with cops.  
  
He swallowed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of one glove. He scraped himself with the handcuff still wrapped around his wrist, and swore.   
  
He had bolt cutters at home. And painkillers. He watched the last of the black smoke wafting away from the bank and swallowed.  
  
At least he had something for Mastermind, if he could beat the information there. Whoever Horns was, he was back with a vengeance, and with a new agenda. That had to be worth something.


	10. Saarloswolfhond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Horrible goes to see Mastermind, to trade for information.  
> Along the way, he runs into Sieg Hale. And Danny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danny! Finally, bb, where have you been all my fic.  
> Also Hong Kong Creole was originally created for an RP Community. It's Cajun-Asian Fusion, only has two waiters, and is owned by a truly terrifying woman. There's an apartment upstairs where the waiters cohabitate. Whether or not they make kissy face depends on the waiters.

Mastermind's lair was deep underground, settled on the outskirts of the city. Doctor Horrible had to sneak around the back of a Cajun-Asian fusion restaurant (Hong Kong Creole, where there were only two waiters and the smells coming from the kitchen were alternately terrifying and intriguing), scoot a few dumpsters out of the way, and take a service door to a rung ladder that was regularly cleaned. It shone with disinfectant, and the corridor stank with the smell of Pine-Sol.  
  
Doctor Horrible made his way, trying not to let his boots squeak on the waxed concrete, from the base of the ladder to the only door. A Corgi stood in front of it, and only the red gleam in its eyes gave it away as nonorganic.  
  
It said, "Appointment?" Its voice was quiet and pleasant, like the perfect gender-ambiguous secretary.  
  
Not missing a beat, Doctor Horrible said, "Walk-in."  
  
It said, "Your clothes are smoldering."  
  
Doctor Horrible said, "No, it's -- they aren't. I'm not on fire. I checked."  
  
The Corgi's back hatch opened to reveal an arm with a thin, clear tube on the end. "Turn, please."  
  
Doctor Horrible sighed. He turned obediently, his hands up, his fingers spread. The Corgi scanned him at the same time it misted him with a fine spray of water.  
  
It beeped contentedly, and he lowered his hands. "Please enter," it said, and the doors behind it opened with a pneumatic hiss.  
  
The Corgi sat, its tail wagging in even swings.   
  
Doctor Horrible said, "Thanks," as he passed.   
  
The Corgi answered amiably, "You're welcome."  
  
Doctor Horrible glanced back as the doors hissed shut again and swallowed. Mastermind was pretty comfortable, if he could keep a piece of technology like that untethered.  
  
The hall before him extended for yards, lit with gentle blue and green lights. It was dim, but there was only one direction to go, heralded by soft yellow runners that glowed invitingly. They got brighter as Doctor Horrible approached the next doorway, where another robot was waiting.  
  
This one was in the shape of a Great Dane, and though it lay in repose, Doctor Horrible knew that on its hind legs it would be taller than he was.  
  
"Doctor," it said, in the rumbling baritone of a very, very large man.  
  
Doctor Horrible nodded, swallowing his intimidation. "Yeah. Hi."  
  
"Please wait approximately six more minutes," it said. "Please remove your coat."  
  
A panel in the floor slid back, from which extended an arm with a hanger, as well as a tray.  
  
Doctor Horrible pressed his lips together, then shrugged out of his lab coat, pulled his goggles from around his neck, and wriggled his gloves out from under the handcuffs still stuck around his wrists.   
  
The arm didn't disappear until he also surrendered his belt to the tray, and the single key in his pocket.  
  
He was suddenly relieved that he'd decided to stash the freeze ray and the laser gun before he'd come over. He wasn't sure how a robotic dog that probably outweighed him would handle volatile weaponry.  
  
When the arm slid back beneath the floor, the Great Dane said, "Your belongings will be returned to you upon your departure."  
  
"I figured," said Doctor Horrible. The handcuffs were cold around his wrists, and suddenly he could only think of Kate's slithering tongue in his mouth.  
  
Doctor Horrible rubbed his face with both hands, and didn't notice the hiss of the door behind the Great Dane opening until it was too late.  
  
"Oh," said Sieg Hale, in a voice that dropped from annoyed to curious in a single syllable. "Doctor Horrible. Hello."  
  
Doctor Horrible snapped to attention, standing in his undershirt in front of the head of the Evil League of Evil. He said, "Um. Hi. Sir. Hello."  
  
Sieg Hale narrowed his eyes, his hands busy doing up the buttons at the front of his coat. "Those are interesting bracelets, my dear."  
  
Weakly, Doctor Horrible laughed. "Eh, yeah, they're all the rage," he managed. He didn't even squeak when Sieg Hale stepped swiftly into his personal space.  
  
"Let me take care of those for you," purred Sieg Hale, and looked pointedly downward. Doctor Horrible watched, dumbstruck, as Sieg Hale took one of his wrists in hand, and pinched the index finger and thumb of his other hand over the hinge on the cuff.   
  
Beneath his fingers, the metal turned red, then yellow. With a gentle snap, Sieg Hale removed the clasp from the handcuff and guided Doctor Horrible's wrist free.  
  
The clatter of the first cuff hitting the ground made Doctor Horrible gasp in a breath. Only then did he realize he'd been holding it.   
  
Sieg Hale lifted Doctor Horrible's other wrist and repeated the motion, superheating the metal under his fingertips. "Will you tell me who tied you up?" he asked, as if commenting on the weather.  
  
Doctor Horrible licked his lips. "Just Kate again. You know, the whole - nemesis. Thing."  
  
"I would  _love_ to hear how you got free," murmured Sieg Hale, dropping the second cuff. He held his thumb over Doctor Horrible's pulse, just below his palm.  
  
The Great Dane said, "Doctor. Mastermind will see you."  
  
Sieg Hale met Doctor Horrible's eyes and smiled. "Ah. Another time, perhaps. You look like you could use a cup of coffee after today."  
  
Doctor Horrible gaped. "I could - what?"  
  
"Coffee. Made from ground, roasted beans, generally flavored with a little sugar and cream?" murmured Sieg Hale, so that the emphasis in the sentence was on  _cream._ "Though you look a little jumpy. Perhaps something with a bit more kick."  
  
Doctor Horrible pulled his wrist out of Sieg Hale's grip. He found his courage, so his voice didn't waver when he said, "Sure. Then you can tell me what you were asking Mastermind about. We'll trade stories."  
  
"Doctor," said the Great Dane, a warning.  
  
Doctor Horrible only took a second to savor the unsettled anger blooming on Sieg Hale before he nodded. "I bet you'll call me. My turn, though."  
  
He scooted through the doors, and only relaxed when he heard them close behind him and Sieg Hale's fingers hadn't closed around his throat.  
  
Before him was a small flock of beanbag chairs, each equipped with its own tablet computer. Mastermind sat cross-legged in the largest of them, with another dog curled up by his knee. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a rug, until its haunches twitched and it lifted its head, regarding him with piercing, blue eyes.  
  
Mastermind smiled. His face was pleasant, nearing middle age, with smile lines around his eyes.  "Stiles. I was wondering when you'd show up."  
  
Doctor Horrible refused to flinch at the use of his name. "What's with all the dog-bots?" he asked. When Mastermind gestured to a nearby beanbag, Doctor Horrible moved toward it, and sank slowly down.   
  
It was  _supremely_ difficult to maintain any semblance of grace when toppling into a beanbag. More so when the toppler in question had run out of adrenaline from the day's events, and was fighting to keep his hands from shaking.  
  
"They used to be beautiful women, but nobody was afraid of them when they bit," said Mastermind easily. He reached out to nestle his hand between the dog's shoulders  
  
"Corgis aren't intimidating, bro," said Doctor Horrible. The beanbag was soft, and swallowed him as he sank into it. "I mean, the big guy in the hall, yeah, but even this one -- "  
  
"Is real," said Mastermind. The dog began to pant. "She's a wolfhound."  
  
Doctor Horrible swallowed. "Like, uh. Part dog, part wolf?"   
  
"What was it you wanted to know, Stiles," murmured Mastermind. The wolfhound's ears swiveled, one pointing directly toward Mastermind, the other toward Stiles.   
  
"Hale House. I want to know about Hale House," said Doctor Horrible.   
  
The tablet computer on his beanbag flickered to life and displayed his query with a confirmation screen. Doctor Horrible almost laughed. He bit his lip to keep quiet, and tapped  _Continue._  
  
"And after this morning, you're hoping for a trade," said Mastermind, nodding. He smoothed one hand over his bald head and said, "What do you have for me?"  
  
Doctor Horrible closed his eyes. He opened his mouth, closed it, blew air out through his nose.  
  
"You know," he began, "I'm not really one hundred percent sure. Horns is back. From. Wherever he was. He was with me this morning. He told me that. That Kate has a pocket in her throat. Where she keeps razorblades."  
  
Doctor Horrible licked his lips, then, and the way the slickness of his own tongue made his breath stutter forced him to bite down on it.   
  
Mastermind sat forward. "She kissed you."  
  
"You can't call it that," said Doctor Horrible, shaking his head. "It wasn't--"  
  
"And Horns is the only reason you're still talking, isn't he."  
  
Doctor Horrible went very still for a moment. A chill ran down his spine as he realized she'd meant to cut his tongue out, she'd meant to do it  _right there_ in the back of a bank, and nobody would have stopped her. Who would she even send the package to this time?   
  
The wolfhound lay her head on Doctor Horrible's knee. He jerked, and she sat up abruptly, her ears flattening against her head.  
  
He tried to press himself into the beanbag. "S-sorry."  
  
She chuffed, then turned away from him, her tail swaying gently as she walked.  
  
Mastermind said, "Horns. Just Horns?"  
  
"He was alone, yeah," mumbled Doctor Horrible, looking back over toward him. "And, uh. On my side."  
  
"Unprompted."  
  
"Out of fucking nowhere," agreed Doctor Horrible. He chewed his lip, peeling away a bit of chapped skin.  
  
Mastermind was silent, but Doctor Horrible couldn't find his babble. His tongue felt too big, ticklish, precious.   
  
"You want to know about Hale House," said Mastermind softly. "In trade."  
  
Doctor Horrible swallowed. "Was my father ever there," he breathed.  
  
Mastermind said, "Let me start from the beginning. Hale House was a family-owned... halfway house. For reformed villains."  
  
Doctor Horrible's head whipped up. He gaped at Mastermind, but the only noise that came from him was a click in his throat.  
  
"The Hales were all superhuman. Some were more obvious than others. They took in villains and helped them integrate back into society. They taught them the rules and how to obey them, all over again."  
  
Mastermind closed his eyes, and the words came up slow and smooth, drawn out of the recesses of his memory. "There were people that didn't believe in their model. There were people that thought villains could never be reformed."  
  
The wolfhound yawned, curling up beside Mastermind again.  
  
"Halefire was compromised. The house went up in flames. Your father was the first civilian on the scene. He was incinerated inside of his own car."  
  
Doctor Horrible shuddered, but Mastermind didn't stop. "The fire was called an accident, because Halefire had disappeared. He was one of two survivors."  
  
"Who was-- "  
  
"That's all your intel was worth." Mastermind's expression softened a little. "But your father died trying to save people, Stiles. He died trying to protect the people in his back seat."  
  
Doctor Horrible stared him down, his expression so raw he could feel it aching on his own face.  
  
Mastermind said, "One was a reformed villain, one week from her release. The other was the eldest daughter."  
  
"But -- "  
  
"That's all," said Mastermind, his tone even and gentle. The wolfhound opened one eye.  
  
Doctor Horrible pushed himself up out of the beanbag, kneading at his own wrists. Mutely, he nodded, and stumbled from the room.  
  
The Great Dane gave him his clothes back. The Corgi told him to have a nice day. One of the waiters from the restaurant was on a break. He gave Doctor Horrible a nod.  
  
When Doctor Horrible dropped to his knees, the waiter blinked, then knelt before him.   
  
"Are you going to make it?" he asked, concern furrowing his brow.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," said Doctor Horrible, nodding. "I'm fine. I just. Legs. Don't got 'em." That close, he caught sight of the waiter's name tag. His name was Danny.  
  
Danny pressed his lips together. Softly, he said, "How about you come in, Stiles. There's a bowl of udon gumbo waiting with your name on it."  
  
Doctor Horrible glared up at him. "I don't know you."  
  
Danny tucked his arm around Doctor Horrible's shoulders. "Give you two guesses as to why I work here, and the first one doesn't count."  
  
Doctor Horrible let himself be levered to his feet. He groaned. "You're some kind of undercover apprentice, aren't you," he mumbled. Danny was surprisingly strong, and held him up easily.  
  
Not as easily as Horns had, but Horns smelled like rotten eggs and Danny smelled like cologne and fried batter. Things evened out. Danny also didn't appear to be keen on dropping him, at least not until he was inside, sitting on a booth upholstered in red vinyl.  
  
Danny slid into the seat across from him. "Don't pass out," he warned, "or you'll burn your face."  
  
Doctor Horrible said, "Wha?" as Danny set a bowl of spicy, thick soup under his chin.  
  
"Are these wontons?" asked Doctor Horrible, blinking down into the steam.  
  
Danny smiled. "Rice dumplings. With filé."  
  
Doctor Horrible gave Danny a frown. Danny gave him an indulgent grin in response. "Fusion," he said, shrugging.  
  
Doctor Horrible lifted a spoonful to his mouth and let it burn his tongue. The prickly numbness was better. He felt centered. He swallowed, and felt the heat run down his throat.  
  
"Fusion," he agreed, and had another bite.


End file.
